VIEWPOINT: Finding Harmony In Sag Harbor

By Isabelle Douglas Seggerman

By land and by sea, we escaped for a midweek adventure. My friend and I booked a trip on the Orient Point Ferry to Sag Harbor.

We embarked from New London and arrived at Orient Point. From there, we took a smaller ferry to Shelter Island, crossed the small island on Route 114, where we took another ferry to Sag Harbor.

The Orient Point ferry ticket cost $146, roundtrip. The Shelter Island North Ferry, $12 to cross, and the South Ferry was $17, although we had not increased the size of our car or the numbers of its passengers.

Dick had never been to Sag Harbor, and I so wanted to give him a new adventure and acquaint him with a village I had known for years and had enjoyed. My late husband, a wine importer, had been a close friend of the owner of The American Hotel, Ted Conklin. I had not been back to Sag Harbor for about 15 years and was extremely curious to remember my former impressions, as well as to see any changes over the years.

Nothing much had changed. The shops still occupy the old Main Street houses. The village has a small footprint, so there is not space to expand it. New homes are being built in places that may not have once been considered prestigious enough, as they were not in the village. Now they are million-dollar-plus-plus homes, some modern, some traditional.

I wanted to share my memories with Dick but more importantly to watch his reactions to a place I had known so many years ago.

Neither of us were disappointed. He adapted and reacted to this small place, the charm, the quirkiness and the conveniences instantly. I was comfortable with the small changes in the village and at The American Hotel.

We pulled up to the hotel around noon and were lucky enough to find a parking space in front of the place. Although midweek, still prior to Memorial Day weekend, most spaces were taken. It seemed as if the high season had never ended. Perhaps it hadn’t.

Check-in was easy. I first noticed the bartender, polishing glasses and making concoctions for the evening’s mixed cocktails, and went to say hello. He was extremely polite and pretended that he knew me. It was not the same bartender I had once known.

The receptionist appeared immediately and gave us the room key and code number to the hotel rooms. Porter help was available for our one flight up onto the carpeted first floor. We refused, young ones that we are. However, as my pain meds were wearing off from a pinched nerve, as I was finishing up my antibiotics for Lyme disease, and recovering from strained back muscles punishing me for lugging one too many bags of mulch to my gardens, I accepted. He refused Dick’s tip.

Our room was a good size with large separate bath with a jet-propelled tub that any ancient Roman would envy. It was as I had expected. Dick, a well-traveled person, on the other hand, did not know what to expect. So it was fun to watch him absorb a new environment.

The American Hotel rooms are unique. They are furnished with Victorian and gothic Revival antiques, appropriate for the age of the hotel, many bought at local auctions by the hotelier. This is no matching beige on beige that one would expect at a Hilton. Nor is there an enormous flat-screen television.

The room has all of the subtle and luxurious features that one would expect at a fine place: high-quality white-on-white sheets; comfortable mattress; large, white, soft terry bath robes; L’Occitane bath soaps and lotions; comfortable chairs; plenty of bureau space; and good standing and table lamps.

The thermostat responded to our hot and cold desires immediately. The prints and paintings on the wall are a tasteful combination of animal and landscapes that added to the ambiance of the space. None is hotel-like — no florals of peonies chosen to match pink carpet or bedspreads suggested by a designer trying to add atmosphere but missing the entire point. It radiates the feeling of a home, not a hotel.

After a quick unpacking, we headed over to Bridgehampton to have lunch with Aaron, a boyhood friend, his wife, Judy, and charming son. The day was bright and beautiful. The air had a fresh scent to it — flowers and sea.

Even though the summer season had not opened, the midweek traffic was bumper to bumper on Montauk Highway. I wondered if Sag Harbor had become a seasonless habitat.

Aaron gave me a quick tour of the downstairs. He said the house was something that he and Judy were absolutely not looking for. They had planned to buy slightly larger than their antique carriage house, where they had lived to accommodate their expanding family. What they got was a builder’s spec house — large, airy, light-filled, 7 acres of land, adding another 10 acres to it when the surrounding land was offered for sale.

The interior was traditional in style: high carved ceilings, over-sized windows, fireplaces. The back had a large stone terrace, pergola and a lawn that seemed to go on for miles. The kitchen contains a large granite center island and high-end appliances. It appeared as if the builder had put every effort imaginable into the place to create perfection. Perhaps he only designed three houses during his career.

We went into the kitchen and were handed a glass of superb rosé called Summer in a Bottle made locally at Wölffer Vineyards. Lunch was on platters on the granite center island. We went to the stone patio overlooking a massive, park-like yard and dined under a pergola. Three kinds of cold soups were offered: gazpacho, melon, cucumber-yogurt. Then chicken curry salad, and chicken walnut salad, followed by fresh fruit and lemon cake. San Pellegrino and iced tea were also available.

After lunch, Judy went up to pack, as they were heading back to New York City that afternoon. Alex, the son, went to work for a bit. Aaron gave us a tour of his property, which had originally been a potato farm. With his love, care, labor and commitment, Aaron had transformed the grounds into a park-like place on par with the 18th century landscape architect Capability Brown.

When Aaron first got the place, he said it was full of about 200 wild and straggly locust trees, which he cut down himself. Over time, he planted 12 Japanese pines that were 6 feet tall and are now between 30 and 35 feet. Slowly, he added other specimen (many native) trees: copper, golden, purple, weeping and split leaf beech trees, river and white birch trees, Japanese maples, apple, cypress, and fir trees.

He created a small, secret space for his granddaughter under a weeping beech. For interest, he added a Japanese garden. There is a small stream that was surrounded by beachgrass and iris. The varying colors and textures of the leaves all played off one and other.

Our host does not manicure the trees. The entire effect is nature, dramatic and timeless.

Aaron has several large sculptures on these 17 acres. My favorite was a very big carved black iron piece that is about 25 feet long and 10 feet high. It’s called “John’s Folly” and was created by John Battle, Dartmouth graduate and blacksmith. It had been made well over a decade ago as a present for the sculptor’s mother.

The animals and birds represented are those that run wild in this area: fox, deer, squirrels, robins, turtles, as well as foliage embellishments. After his mother’s death, the sculpture languished behind the blacksmith’s shop. Our host discovered it and had it transported here. It took about a week to install it, and it now lives on the large lawn behind the house.

It was time for our host and family to return to the city. Dick and I decided to extend the afternoon by heading over to the Parrish Art Museum for a quick peek at its collection before closing time. I was curious to see his reactions to the contemporary (much by famous regional artists) works.

Dick’s taste in art rests in the more traditional: early 20th American landscapes, seascapes and marines. His style is Orvis. He likes walks on small rural paths and through forests. He enjoys martinis with three olives while looking at a sunset on his back porch, overlooking a golf range.

The museum is a long, one-story, barn-like structure located in an open field. Most of the paintings we had time to view were large and quite modern. Some of the sculptures were whimsical, depicting creatures.

We headed back to our hotel to have a quick drink at its bar before our 7 p.m. reservation for a super-starred meal that the dining room provides. (No need for a change of clothing, as the American Hotel no longer requires ties and jackets, although sweatpants and beach attire are not appropriate even our more casual world.)

Dick was amused by the moose head festooned with paper butterflies (the adornments are changed with the seasons and holidays) that has been there ever since when. Billy Joel has played the piano in the main parlor. The bartender made me a Kir. Although a simple cocktail, it was the best I had ever had.

Dinner was beyond our wildest expectations. I think I could live on the gently sautéed bay scallops, and sautéed and braised seasonal vegetables tossed lightly in olive oil. Dick’s meal of braised fish was equally as delicious. We ended the dinner and day with decaf cappuccinos.

The next morning, after a nice continental breakfast, we walked through the village. It took about 10 minutes from one end of the main street to the other. We popped into a contemporary art gallery and were greeted by the charming owner. She told us about some of the artists she represented and did not seem at all surprised that we did not purchase one of the expensive paintings.

Although the boutiques, clothing, furnishings and high-end accessories were filled with delightful (essential and non-essential offerings), our credit cards remained in our wallets.

We stopped in a wine shop. The top shelf held many expensive ($500 per bottle) domestic and imported selections. I chose to find the affordable and had a very hard time getting off my knees after looking at them.

There is an old-style 5-and-10-cent variety store. The shelves were jammed with plastic beach toys, paper plates, sun lotions, sand pails and shoelaces. It looked like a combination of a Dollar Store and Ocean State Job Lot.

We went over to the Wölffer winery, where we had booked a tour and tasting. We drove into the vineyard and parked in front of a smooth stone house. Vines were on trestles next to it. Each varietal was listed. The house had ocher-colored plaster walls accented by sea blue trim. I felt as if we were in an Italian country house. Other visitors wandered in.

The tour had been canceled due to the COVID-19 that lingered; however, we were offered a tasting and pairing, and were not disappointed. Dick and I chose a flight with two whites and two reds, along with a cheese, fruit and cracker plate. A pitcher of water was placed on the table. We sat under an umbrella on the back stone terrace overlooking the vineyard.

Tasting notes were provided for us as we slowly sipped and cleared our palettes with the food. We were left alone to savor the selections. No wine tutorials — thank goodness. Not rushed, we remained for about two hours with the warm sun and wine as our companions.

We made the requisite stop at the winery’s customer counter. I got a bottle of the Summer in a Bottle rosé that we had at Aaron’s house. Dick chose the sauvignon blanc and the cabernet franc that we had just finished sampling.

We then drove to Southampton, about 10 minutes away; parking was easy, free and provided by the village. They were obviously ready, willing and able to cater to visitors.

We wandered the main street with its expensive clothing boutiques. I found a simple pretty cotton blouse. It remained on the hanger when I noticed its $275 price tag.

Back in Sag Harbor, we ate at an expensive Italian restaurant in the village. There was outside and indoor dining. We sat comfortably inside and admired the soft beige and gray tones of the décor. The wicker hanging lamps enhanced the sophisticated yet casual atmosphere of the place.

I wasn’t too keen on the heavy pasta dish I had ordered. Dick was enthusiastic about the vitello tonnato he had chosen.

I indulged in the jet-propelled tub that night. It did not disappoint. The swirling warm water lifted me to hydroponic heights. The village was quiet on this Tuesday night. We slept like babies.

The next morning, our last for this visit, we took one more walk through the village. I had hoped to find a robe that Dick had wanted to get for me. We did not find it. Probably just as well, because it was by no means a necessity, just a luxurious nonessential.

We three-ferried back to Connecticut.

He liked the sophisticated and bohemian feeling of the town. I enjoyed being back on Long Island and sharing a favorite place with Dick.

Our time in Sag Harbor was memorable. Dick experienced the new; I remembered the old. A perfect harmony.

How often does that happen?

Isabelle Douglas Seggerman is a writer from Haddam, Connecticut.